I can feel it,
Within me, in my chest, a constant pain and deep established unhappiness that I ignore quite easily most days.
But some days, like these days, it’s too much, it’s too clenched, like crushed glass running its fingers across the walls of that empty space.
With these painful memories.
I re-analyse mistaken behaviours, stumbling actions, on the track to being okay.
And I know I’m nearly there. I’ve moved on from so much destructive silence. So much hazy indifference. With so little help. But I still question myself as to whether my person, that inner child philosophy, has healed and is truly strong enough. My frequent actions seem to suggest otherwise; but my straight demeanour never completely shows the cracked mess, the lost girl running to the first signs of like.
And if I point, tear and try to show it to you openly, so that I don’t feel like I have to endure all this by myself, your back is turned. And the feeling always passes, and you never look far enough anyway. I stand, my painting blotched, your face scratched out, not the masterpiece I once thought it was.
When I resurrect tendencies of the need to make people understand and feel those sickening upside downs, I think that there is possibly still a form hovering above my head reaching to maintain a finger on my nerve. Continuously placed there until today, keeping the weight on my self-confidence and my ability to remain happy longer than the short bursts of loud laughter everyone hears.
I want: Stability, Power, Confidence, Happiness, Comfort, Complete Sanity and all that which comes with purpose and fulfilment in life.
I don’t want that to be You, but if I have trouble seeing where else I would get it from, I will not walk back to a field without lilies.